The Desert Bled Black
by Wyoming Outlaw
Summary: A fortune teller predicts the war and the impact it will have on its participants
1. 1942 - prologue

**When you lie down, you will not be afraid; **

**when you lie down, your sleep will be sweet."**

-Proverbs 3:24

I have always believed that there was something powerful about the break of dawn, the promise of something new, something that has never happened before. The day would bring new lives into the world, and it would still arrive even though there would be those who would never see its majesty again. I also believe men have the profound desire to know what the day would bring, what unknown was written for this particular day, everything which we are powerless to control.

It has never ceased to be a magical part of the day for me. Even now, looking out over this God-forsaken part of the desert, I calmly await it. I enjoy the solitude and quiet the desert offers, the peacefulness it brings me before the others are stirring and preparing for the day. It is at dawn that I would gather my thoughts and confirm my plans for the upcoming day.

It is a ritual I've done for quite some time. I would frequently greet the dawn when I was home, before all this madness descended upon the world. I would enjoy rising early to gaze out over the countryside, waiting for the sun to first show itself; first as a small sliver, then as a golden orb, feeling its light and warmth upon my body. I preferred being alone for this powerful moment, not wanting to share it with anyone else, not even my cherished loved ones.

Of course, back home, I would be looking at hillsides covered with green trees, dusted with snow on those frosty winter mornings when I would stir early. Sometimes, I would seek the rising sun as I stood on the terrace surrounded by my mother's potted geraniums. Other times, I would rise early to hike up the steep hills so I would be at their peak when the sun touched me as I was surrounded by the sharp scent of the forest.

But there is a power and beauty about the desert which I have grown to appreciate over the years. People believe the desert is barren and without life, but I have always known differently. If it was so barren, then why have men fought so desperately for it over the years and bled so much blood into it? Even now, they were fighting for it, not far from where I was standing. Countries from divergent places were converging to stake their claim on this desolate place, and no doubt, would continue to do so far into the future.

The desert had already taken a part of my soul; it had claimed it even before the war. I had learned its language, studied its culture and had known its women. I had come to believe it would always be with me, engulfing my life along with all of those others who fight with and against me. It is what she had predicted, and so far she had not been wrong, not in the least.

It was at dawn that my thoughts would most frequently drift to her, to revisit what she had said and pray not to catch the elusive smell of jasmine. At first I disbelieved her, but then, over time, I realized I was the one who was mistaken. It was my arrogance and pride which led me to doubt her words.

Over time, I grew to have faith in those words she spoke to me on that fateful night, so long ago, so many years in the past. She had been right about everything: my friends, and the others, those men from so far away, who had come to share the war in the desert with me. And most importantly, she had been precise about the difficult choices I would be forced to make and the impact they would have on my life.


	2. 1934

It was the last night of our trip to North Africa and I was planning on making the most of it. To say that I was a little tight was an understatement. I had been here for almost a month with my friends, celebrating the last carefree days of our youth. We were to set sail for Egypt tomorrow and finally return home, beginning our careers in earnest. We had spent the trip basically drinking our way across North Africa, partying and meeting women and, when the desire arose and the effort remained, seeing the museums and sights.

I had been to the Middle East several times previously, but this was the first visit for my three friends who were traveling with me. None of us had any real expectations to return to the area any time in the near future due to our work commitments. Because of this, I wanted to make the most of my last night, knowing that my freedom and choices would be much more limited in the very near future. And, not to mention, it would be the only time I would be able to enjoy the company of the lovely Miss Irene.

I was sitting in a small bar in Benghazi, conveniently located within walking distance of the beach. Miss Irene was just the type of woman I liked: a lanky beautiful American redhead with legs like a giraffe. It was my goal to have a tryst with her on the beach before the hour was over and see if she was truly a redhead.

I had broken away from my three friends earlier in the evening with a vague promise of meeting later that night to drink to our futures and close out the trip with a final roar. For whatever reason, they went off in a silly pursuit of finding a native fortune teller which didn't interest me in the slightest. I have always scoffed at fortune tellers believing they told you what you wanted to hear, silly things that were completely impractical to the realities of life.

The choice between a fortune teller versus the other entertainment offered in the bar wasn't hard for me to make. I purposely lost them at the first opportunity, ducking back through one of the narrow streets to return to the bar. I was more than content to have my immediate future told to me by Miss Irene.

I had been dancing with her for the last few hours on the small dance floor, cooling off the heat with surprisingly good gin and tonics. I was hot and sweaty in more ways than one and had no desire for it to be a ménage a trios when my friend found me, or I should say, tracked me down, an accomplishment given his current state of sobriety.

"There you are! We've been looking all over you. There's someone who wants to see you. In fact, she says she won't take no for an answer," my friend said with a sly grin, trying to put me in an uncomfortable situation. I looked up at him, wishing him dead on the spot. I had no desire to meet some other woman; I had already accomplished that delight on my own.

"I'm not even remotely interested in meeting some else," I said not taking my eyes off my date, giving her my most charming smile, as I gently pressed my leg against hers under the table. "I'm already in the presence of the most lovely company."

"Oh, no! She's not like _that _type of woman. She's a fortune teller. Remember how we told you we wanted to find one and have our fortunes read?" Vaguely, remotely…No, not in the least I thought, and frankly caring even less. But this didn't stop him from trying to persuade me to accompany him to meet her.

"You just have to come with me. We've already had our fortunes read and now it's your turn. The fortune teller knew all about you, almost like magic. She said if you didn't meet her within the next few minutes, she would close her shop and you would miss this once in a lifetime opportunity." That may be true, I thought, but I also didn't want to miss the opportunity in the long, cool silk dress sitting next to me.

"Come on! Come on! She said your presence would be in my best interest, too. Not quite sure how you being there would have an impact on my life, but she was very insistent. What harm could there be to step out for just a few minutes to humor us and have some fun? You're always so serious, only thinking of work. Besides, I won't leave until you say yes," he said, planting himself firmly at the table. With his ear-to-ear grin, I knew wild horses couldn't drag him away.

I sighed inwardly and realized the finesse would be to make both of these events happen within a short space of time. Accepting the fact he wouldn't take no for an answer, not to mention I just wanted to be rid of him for the rest of the evening, I unsteadily rose up from the small, intimate table.

"Miss Irene, would you excuse me for just a few moments? I promise you I will return shortly and then we can continue our conversation. Perhaps on the beach, where it is cooler and with more privacy?" I added, glaring daggers at my friend. I placed my hand on her porcelain jaw, lightly caressing her cheek with my index finger for added emphasis.

"My name is Jean, not Irene. And don't bother returning here if you're not finished within fifteen minutes. I promise you that I won't be here a second longer, no matter how good looking you are or how charming I find you with your cultured accent. So my suggestion is for you to choose wisely since you won't have a second chance," she said in a serious voice leaning forward, allowing me to see just a hint of her décolletage and the promises below.

"And my promise to the both of you is that he will return in plenty of time for your private party," my friend said jumping up from the table, immensely enjoying my difficult situation. "One can always have their cake and eat it, too."

He pulled me from the bar and down a few side streets until we ended up in a narrow street that came to a dead end. The fortune teller's shop was at the end, small and private, located next to a bakery. My other two friends were still waiting in the parlor when I was dragged into it. They then proceeded to pull me into the back room, pushing through the hanging beads which shadowed its entrance.

"I told you I would bring him and here he is," my friend proudly told the seer loudly in English, a language the locals would know. He pushed me into a chair at a small table covered by a dark tapestry, across from the fortune teller.

"My friend tells me that you eagerly want to read my fortune. What do you see that is so important?" I asked rather curtly, switching over to Arabic, which they did not understand. I finally looked at her face, and what I saw surprised me.

I thought she would be some old, ragged hag, but a surprisingly beautiful face returned my gaze. She was definitely older than me, probably old enough to be my mother, but she had a timeless beauty about her that any woman would be proud to possess. Thick raven curls had escaped her headscarf and were framing her face. Her skin was light, lighter than my own which had considerably darkened under the constant sun. And her eyes, they were a light mixture of green and brown that bored into my soul. Yes, some European in her past had definitely made his way to a native's tent in the middle of the night, I thought.

I could smell her faint perfume which was of jasmine and of the desert and I found myself suddenly attracted to her and strongly desiring her. Yes, if the lovely Miss Regine, I mean Irene, wasn't still waiting at the bar, then the fortune teller could definitely work as the consolation prize. I could already imagine myself between her thighs and my hands knotted in those ebony curls, a night that I would probably remember for a long time into the future.

"You speak Arabic very well, almost like a native. But I would expect it, since you've traveled to this part of the world many times and you already speak several other languages fluently."

"And I suppose you know exactly which languages?" I asked with a tinge of sarcasm to my voice. I glanced at my watch. The fifteen minutes were beginning to flee by and I just wanted this event to be finished.

"I would think you would ask me a question more difficult than that, but I'll humor you and answer your simple question: English, French, Latin, Italian, German and Arabic. You'll pick up a few more in the next decade. Is this good enough for my opening?" she replied innocently with wide eyes, or, I should say, smugly with gleeful eyes.

"What do you see in my life that is so important?" I asked again, not bothering to confirm her answer as correct. "My future bride? How many children we'll have? The house in the countryside? My time is precious so please share what you have to say quickly and let me be on my way."

"Your time is not as precious as my own. I rarely provide someone the gift of their future, so you should be honored I'm taking any time at all with you, especially given your harsh words and tone of voice. If you continue on with this line of sarcasm, I will be forced to give you an unpleasant reading. Do we have an understanding?" she asked lightly, with a slight smile on her lips. But there was a force behind her words I couldn't place, a strength I felt was beyond me. I decided it would probably be for the best to be quiet and give her my respect. She should have my respect anyway given she was a woman and, if anything, it would help me be out of here sooner. I stopped protesting and gave her a curt nod.

"Your family already has the house in the countryside," she replied in lightly accented English, easily switching over from her native tongue. I looked at her surprised regarding this piece of information, but then I realized my friends had probably already provided her with the basic details of my life and were behind this silly joke. She was speaking in English to ensure they heard her words, I reasoned. They were gathered around behind me, eagerly waiting for the entertainment and probably slipping her the answers. My surprise turned to wariness. I wasn't going to go along with the joke lightly and she easily read my expression.

"You don't believe what I have to say? I thought we had an understanding regarding your behavior."

"Not particularly," I replied back with forced politeness. "No doubt my friends told you about the country estate, or it could have been a lucky guess on your part. Since I'm a westerner traveling in the Middle East, chances are my family would have some money. But I will listen to your words, for the sake of amusement and out of respect for you. However, I would greatly appreciate if you tell me what you have to say quickly since I have another engagement waiting for me." Again, I looked down at my watch. Ten minutes had already passed since I had left the bar.

"The American redhead, she won't be waiting for you in the bar. She will keep her promise and will be gone within her allotted fifteen minutes. If anything, you should be grateful for me detaining you since she would have given you an uncomfortable disease. And yes, since you were wondering about her, she was a true redhead. But don't worry, you'll eventually marry an American redhead, but it won't be the one currently waiting in the bar." My friends were laughing hysterically at her words, but I wasn't. I had shared with no one my crass thought regarding Miss Charlene. I quickly met the fortune teller's eyes, but they revealed nothing to me.

"And you can dismiss your thoughts about me being your consolation prize. That will not happen, either," she added firmly. Her knowledge of my thoughts was unsettling to me. It was at this point I realized I should listen to what she had to say seriously.

I found myself quickly becoming sober as she firmly took my hand to look into my future and soul. As she ran her index finger across the palm of my hand, I found her touch exciting while at the same time I found it rather disturbing. Her hands were strong, yet surprisingly soft. Her reading took just a few minutes, and at the end of it, I found myself completely sober.

"There is a great war coming, and you will be a part of it."

"A war?" snorted my friend who had dragged me there. "Why everyone knows that's going to happen. Couldn't you give a better reading than that? You didn't mention the war when you gave us our fortunes."

"I have to agree with my friend," I said warily; I didn't think it wise to continue angering her. "Given the uneasy situation in Europe and my age, fighting in a war would be a likely conclusion for my future," I added uneasily. Wars were not pleasant. There was a major difference about thinking there could be a war versus being told a war was actually going to happen. These were two entirely different scenarios. She ignored our comments and continued with her reading.

"It will have a major impact on your life," she said ignoring out comments. "The war will bring you back here, to Libya, not far from where you are now sitting. You will fight for the desert with several Americans and a European. Your life will be inter-twined with these others, especially a certain American. The American will save your life, yet he will also be responsible for your near death on several occasions. And you will reciprocate the same for him. Your lives will continue to be connected after the war. He will never be far from you and your work with them will continue well into the future."

"An American woman will save my life?" I asked incredulously.

"Not a woman, you dolt, an American man. Seems like you have women on the brain tonight, eh?"

I curled my lip at the thought of fighting with an American and my life being forever 'connected' with one. I had never particularly cared for Americans. I found them boorish, brash and boastful. No doubt they would boast from the moon if they could find some way to actually travel there. Wherever I had the misfortune to come across one, in my trips to the United States or in Europe, they were all the same. Now they were going to be here, in the desert, fighting with me. Could we never be rid of those arrogant fools? I just hoped their self-satisfying form of arrogance wasn't catching. A gentle pressure on my hand returned me to the present.

"I find it interesting for you to be so dismissive of the American."

"I never mentioned a word about the American," I said innocently.

"You didn't have to. It was written across your face."

"My experiences with Americans have left little to be desired," I countered as a defense.

"Well, you remember these thoughts when he is about to save your life. I'm sure at that moment your desires will be somewhat different," she said with a touch of irony to her voice.

"But why would I fight for the desert, with him? There is nothing in the desert."

"Men have always fought for the desert and will continue to do so in the future. In almost a hundred years the world will still be here fighting for it. You will also live to see that come to pass."

"I will take you at your word regarding the American and fighting for the desert. But tell me then, who wins the overall war? The one you say is coming soon?"

"Who wins will not matter. What will be important is your service during it."

"Not matter? How can you say 'Who wins will not matter'?" I said, not believing what I had heard. "Isn't winning the purpose of fighting a war? For fighting any war? I will be going off to serve in what you say will be a major war, get my ass potentially shot off, and all you can do is speak in riddles?" I shook my head in disbelief.

"You are not listening in more ways than one. I've already told you, your life will be saved." She leaned in closer and added, "You should be grateful for this. You will be the only one of your three friends who will survive the war. The one who brought you to me, he will, Allah bless his soul, will have the most difficult death of the three," she said with a glance over my shoulder to my friends. This last part she said in Arabic to conceal their future from them.

I quickly glanced back at them, their faces red with laughter and drink, smiling and full of life. I could not imagine them dead, not one of them. All they wanted was to live, and they, including myself, thought we would live forever.

"If they're all going to die, what did you tell them about their futures? What lies could you possibly tell them if you saw them dying in the war?" I asked her, also in Arabic.

"What do you think I told them? Do you think I have no compassion for them? I told them the normal things, the things they wanted to hear: who they will marry, how many children they will have, the house in the countryside. None of which any of them will achieve, not in this life time. You will be the only one of your friends to achieve all of these."

"Then why didn't you have compassion for me and tell me the same foolish thoughts? Why did you even bother telling me what was going to happen to us in the war? Why should I be the one to survive and not them? What makes me different? You are hinting to me of a great burden I must shoulder. I don't want it; I don't want the possibility of failing to achieve this responsibility."

"You must not question the work of Allah. He must have a purpose for you so you must not waste your gift of life. You can take comfort in the fact that you will die at home, surrounded by your loved ones, many decades from now. Extraordinary things will happen in your remaining life, but it will all be built on what you accomplish here." I was preoccupied with this, but her next words brought me sharply back into focus.

"I have nothing more to say."

"Nothing more? What do you mean you have nothing more to say? You mean, that is all?" I yelled surprised, not being able to control myself. "All you have told me is about some upcoming war, which I could have told _you _about, my three friends all dying and some arrogant boob of an American who will fight with me. Can you tell me what he will be wearing? An American cowboy hat to ensure I do not miss him? I have absolutely no desire to be forever linked with this particular American. Forgive me for saying so, but you've rather left my life with several empty holes and unknowns, wise and wonderful Fortune Teller," I yelled at her sarcastically.

"I have told you more than you realize. It is for you to fill in the holes of your life, but you must do so with wise choices. You will know when those moments arrive." Her voice was calm and she hadn't flinched in the least when I had yelled at her. It took a while for my anger to dissipate and I knew, oh how I knew, to the bottom of my soul, she was telling me what would come to pass.

"Why me?" I asked again, this time softly, but I knew she wouldn't answer. Why I was the one chosen from this group of four, I would never know.

I sat there quietly for a few minutes, looking into her eyes, but I saw nothing else and I knew nothing else would be forthcoming from her. I could hear my friends behind me becoming restless, wanting to leave now that this part of the evening's entertainment was over. As for me, I felt a strange bond with her that I wanted to continue, but I realized it had already come to an end.

"What do I owe you for your wisdom?" I finally asked softly.

"Pay me what you believe is fair," she replied equally as soft. "I will accept whatever you offer without qualms."

I pulled out several large bills from my wallet. I folded the bills and placed them into her left palm, closing her hand within both of my own. I gently held her closed hand for a long moment before I released it, forever breaking our bond. My friends had seen the amount I gave her and immediately began jeering me.

"Have you had too much sun or are you just plain nuts? You'll ruin it for everyone else she reads for in the future. You've way over paid her, what she said is not worth that much. Or are you looking for something different? Perhaps an encore performance of something different, more substantial? Someone to make up for the supposed long gone redhead?" This final comment generated more drunken laughter. Embarrassed at my earlier desires, I looked away from her, averting my eyes.

"You are a man of honor. You will go far in life," she said quietly in Arabic as she laid her cool hand on my cheek, turning my face to meet her gaze. Her calm eyes thanked me and clearly told me that she forgave me for my earlier crude thoughts. Without saying a word, I rose and left without looking back at her, not caring if my friends followed or not.

She was right, of course. Miss…Miss Eileen… was that her name? had already departed when we returned to the bar, after we stopped to buy a few loaves of bread at the bakery. But at that point, I no longer wanted her, even putting aside the probability of catching an uncomfortable disease.

The four of us stayed at the bar, at the very same table, for the remainder of the night, drinking until dawn. I generally don't need a 'liquid dinner', but this was one of those few times in my life I did. Her prophecy had hit a little too close for comfort and I needed something strong to put it out of my mind. It was not the same fun and entertainment which my friends had received.

As the evening was dying down and we were having our third round of 'last ones', we had our photograph taken on the spur of the moment. The photographer was one of those who move from table to table in bars and nightclubs, hoping to make some quick money off drunken patrons.

He must have had a dark room nearby for he returned within the hour bringing four simple copies of a photograph. We paid for them with a few coins, my friends playfully bantering regarding the price. We looked at the photographs and they made jokes about the photographer's lack of talent, but I thought he had uncomfortably captured the evening perfectly. It clearly showed I was already no longer a member of the group and never would be again.

In the photograph, my three friends were seated at the table while I was removed, standing tall behind them. They were relaxed and carefree; their faces were full of life, energy and excitement written across them, the expectations of a happy life. I was in stark contrast: rigid and distracted staring off at something unseen over the photographer's left shoulder. When I looked at the photograph, which I did frequently over the years, I always thought I looked liked I was posing for a North American totem pole.

I drank to forget that night, the only time in my life I had done so up to then. I vaguely remembered drinking anything that was liquid and dancing with several faceless women (I'm not even sure how I managed the dancing let alone perhaps doing anything else with them.)

I must have blacked out because I didn't remember staggering back to the hotel to sleep it off for a few hours before our departure. When I awoke the next morning due to an ice bucket of water being thrown in my face, the memory came back in full force. The drinking to excess hadn't worked too well. No, not in the slightest. She had seen to it for me to grow up quickly and to leave my youth behind in the space of less than thirty minutes.

I thought about what the fortune teller had said quite a bit over the next few weeks as we travelled back home, but gradually her prophecy started to fade. It eventually went to the back of my mind as I started my highly disciplined work career and began living my life seriously. I think that eventful night in Benghazi was a significant reason why I became so focused and serious later in life. I grew up that night, really molding over to become someone so steadfast in my life and career. Before I had no responsibilities in the world; now I was responsible for others.

I soon came to believe that work was more fun than play; it had more to contribute to one's life. Oh, but to remember those young wild days, before I became so centered on my career. That's not to say that I didn't live life to the fullest during those exciting times. And I'm not just talking about the women, although there were several who crossed my path during the war's prelude. I participated in sports, engaged in drawing, learned another language (as she said I would) and travelled extensively. My career was going very well and I was already being noted as someone to be watched in the future.

It wasn't until the rumblings of war became louder that I started to remember her reading in earnest. My thoughts would occasionally drift to her as I gazed up at the sky during those early mornings, when I would greet the dawn. And finally, the war rumblings became a reality and everything she said started to fall into place.


	3. 1940

She had been correct about the war's arrival. I had hoped it would start later, but I realized its eventual beginning could not be delayed. Unfortunately, I knew what the war would bring in regards to my friends. I wanted to be in denial about their fates, but she was also right about all of them, about their deaths in the war.

We had remained close over all those years and the war would soon engulf each of us. The four of us were now serving in the military, and I heard about their deaths even though I wasn't there for the first two of them. My first friend died in some nameless field in France, buried in an unknown grave. I was also serving in France, but in a different area and I remember not finding out about his death until days after it had occurred.

Everything had been chaotic and I was wolfing down something to eat, the first time I had eaten that day even though it was now late in the afternoon. Suddenly, something unknown approached me and I caught the fleeting scent of jasmine just for an instant before it was gone. I hadn't smelled its perfume since I was in her shop, six years earlier. I stopped in mid chew and asked a soldier near me if he, too, could smell its sweet fragrance or if I was just imagining it. He looked at me like I had gone mad before replying that all he could smell was death and shit and still more death. His frank reaction made me instantly realize never to ask anyone again regarding its presence.

I found out about my first friend's death through a candid comment. Someone standing near me, I can't even remember who, casually mentioned his death in passing, like he was telling me which team had lost the latest football tournament. I was already starting to become hardened toward death, war has a tendency to do this to men, but I still took his death as a shock. Even though she had warned me, I still hadn't expected it to actually happen. I instantly lost my appetite, the food stuck in my throat, and what food remained in my hands slipped to the sodden earth.

There were the battered remains of a French chapel nearby and I went there later, in the early evening, when I finally had a moment to gather my thoughts. I immediately removed my cover when I entered, placing it under my arm. I instinctively reached for the font of holy water, touching it and crossing myself as I wondered if it was actually holy water or just rain water and if there was even a difference.

I sank to my knees in the rubble facing forward, where the altar would have been less than a month before. I was by myself in the church, but I prayed not to be alone at this particular moment. With my eyes open, staring at the gaping hole, I prayed for my friend's soul along with the souls of the remaining three of us. I prayed to understand my part in all of this, why this needed to happen, to help me see the plan and accept its inevitability.

I felt nothing, though, just emptiness. The rushing wind and rain were the only answers I received in the desolate church. The peace and understanding I so desperately wanted to feel would not descend upon me, not at this moment when I wanted and needed it the most. By not receiving any sign, I knew it was not meant for me to know at this time. The sign would appear when she felt I was ready and not a moment before. I finally rose and left in the driving rain, and as I did, I begged God to have mercy.

I looked at the photograph of the four of us when I had a moment a few days afterward. For whatever reason, I had stuffed it into my possessions at the last moment when I left for France. Surprisingly, for a cheap quality photograph, it had remained remarkably clear and sharp over the years with no fading or yellowing. And there he was, there was my friend. I saw him, as he always would be, seated at the right hand side of the table, full of life as he would remain evermore until the photograph itself was destroyed.

I received a letter from my mother weeks later, in which she briefly mentioned his death. He had been to our estate several times for weekend events and she had thought he was such a nice young man. A true credit to his family since he had made such a sacrifice, she wrote. I never acknowledged his death in any of my return letters home; I could not broach such a difficult subject with her, not over something so personal and which had touched me so deeply. She would have been especially distraught about the unknown grave, there being no set place for his mother to grieve after the war.

There was still a part of me that couldn't quite believe the fortune teller. Or more accurately, I didn't want to believe. The odds were stacked against the four of us surviving, I would reason with myself, trying to rationalize his death. War meant death and this war was already being fought differently from those in the past. But when I found out about the second death, I accepted the full force of her prophecy. Any doubts I may have remotely had, instantly vanished.

It was months later when the jasmine again paid me a visit. It was earlier in the day this time, in the morning, at dawn when the sun was breaking free from the night. I immediately stopped what I was doing when I caught its gentle perfume, knowing what it was to bring, but not wanting to accept it. I wondered which one of us it would be, and pondered if the death had already happened or would occur in the next few moments.

So far during the war, I had made it a point not to pursue casualty reports. I saw death around me every day, it wasn't necessary for me to read about it, the endless names following one another in an orderly fashion. It wasn't like I was sticking my head in the sand and pretending it wasn't happening. Oh yes, I knew men were dying: I had already done my share of killing and I had done my duty in reporting those killed around me. But to me, the lists seemed to magnify just how much dying was taking place with no end in sight.

Somewhere I found a list, or more accurately, it found me. It brushed up against my leg, blown here from some unknown place, across the battlefield in the late afternoon. I would not have expected a casualty list to be blowing around so freely, for the enemy to pick up if they cared to stoop. Against my will, not wanting to but unable to control myself, I picked up the list and smoothed out its creases with my dirt and oil stained hands.

I immediately went to where my second friend's name would be listed and there it was, spelled out in black and white, clear as day. He had died over London, shot down during the Battle of Britain, only a few weeks previously. My mind travelled back to the day he had died, trying to remember something tangible, but I couldn't remember anything out of the ordinary for this particular date. I felt empty and guilty for having lived the last few weeks not knowing he was already gone from this life.

My thoughts returned to him, how much we had done together over the years. I remembered the numerous times I had shared a pint with him in a small London pub we both liked, located on a dark side street. We would sit for hours, getting tight, becoming louder and more boisterous as the evening would wear on. Picking up women, moving out into the darkness, cooling off in their arms without even caring to know their names. No doubt the pub was also gone, destroyed in one of the mass bomb droppings, along with the carefree lives we had known. How ironic he had been killed in an area we had enjoyed so much before the war.

I allowed the list to slip from my hands and it was immediately picked up by the wind and carried away over the horizon to the setting sun. I didn't chase after it because I knew the third name would not be there, not yet. It wasn't his time. Somehow I knew that the third and final death would be different and would impact me the most.

My family didn't mention the second death in their letters even though they must have known. Our fathers had been close friends and they frequently had entertained each other's family. There was already so much death at home it was becoming impossible to stay current with it and who was already dead. So many families had lost sons and my family was probably focused on me, their own possible loss if the war continued for many more years. As much as I wanted to mention my friend's death in my letters to my father, I felt there was nothing I could say. There was no possible way for me to provide any comfort to him so I let the event pass, as I had done with the first one.

I didn't have the strength to look at the photograph until weeks later. I wanted to, but was unable to until some time had passed. Of course, it hadn't changed when I finally did look at it. But, then again, I knew it would never change. There were the four us, our moment captured forever. But half of those pictured were gone, never to return again. From that point on, I waited for the jasmine, knowing it was only a matter of time before it made its appearance again.


	4. 1941

The third death was the hardest since I was present for it which occurred, here, in the desert. Not far from the Benghazi bar, not far from the fortune teller's shop, not far from where I was currently standing. Not in some distant European section where our country was fighting, but here, near her. Everything always seemed to converge in this one spot.

We had been in Libya for only a few months when he fell. I was preparing for the next day's battle when the jasmine visited me late in the evening. I knew since there were only two of us remaining, one of us would not be here to see the sun set the next day. I thought it ironic the death would be in Libya, the desert I had dismissed to her during the reading. I remembered saying how there was nothing in the desert, yet within the day it would claim one of our lives.

The two of us had been in combat several times together and we usually had fought near each other. However, this time we fought in different areas and I was unaware how he had fared. I finally heard through headquarters that his unit had taken heavy casualties and his fate was unknown.

When the battle was over and there was the deathly calm that always seems to follow, I made the decision to look for him. I knew he would still be alive and waiting for me, expecting me to be there for his final moments. I had to find him, to be there for what should be the concluding death from our group.

I searched for some time, into the evening even though it was dangerous for me to do so alone. I don't know how I actually found him; it was only by chance I finally spotted him, on the battlefield's edge. He was off to the side, in the shadow of a burning vehicle, calmly waiting, almost as if he knew I would appear and he wouldn't allow himself the comfort of dying until I arrived. She had warned me his death would be the most difficult, but I still wasn't prepared for how he had been brought down.

He had been cut down, literally almost in two, from the heavy enemy fire. His entrails were exposed and he was drenched in blood. How he was still alive, I could not even begin to imagine. The pain must have been over whelming. I had already seen much death and destruction on the battlefields, but this would be the first time I would see a close, personal friend taken away in such a horrific way. If he had been a horse, I would have immediately shot him, to put both of us out of our misery. Why men are so humane to animals and not to our fellow selves will always remain a mystery to me.

When I found him, I tore off my goggles and slowly approached him. I willed myself to give him the respect the dying man deserved and not bring any shame upon either one of us. I was appalled to see his once magnificent body broken and torn into pieces. And I had the horrible knowledge that there was nothing neither I nor anyone of this world could do for him.

I stripped off my jacket and gently placed it under his head to cushion it from the coarse sand and pebbles. I knelt down beside him, and he clenched my arm with a fierce strength as if he was willing my life into his dying body. He was trying to talk, but the blood in his mouth made it difficult. He couldn't properly speak and the words came out garbled.

"Ellery…" was all I could barely whisper, his name caught in my throat. I didn't know if he would even be able to hear my voice above the sound of the burning vehicles and the occasional exploding munitions. His eyes bored into me, and I could tell he was desperately trying to form words. When he was finally able to articulate, I realized that he had remembered that night, too.

"Is this what…the woman divulged to you?" his words staggered out in short bursts. "You must remember her. The woman fortune teller…our last night in Benghazi before the war. You were the only one she spoke to about the war…did she say that I would be killed, I would not survive? Along with the others? I know the other two are already dead. The fortune teller spoke to you mostly in Arabic…the rest of us couldn't understand what she was saying to you. Are you to be the only one to live through this?"

I agonized over the next few seconds as to what to tell him. An easy lie so he could die in peace and give my conscious a trouble-free break? Or tell him the truth, for my soul and my honor's sake? My honor finally won out and I gave him a slight nod of my head, unable to speak the words.

"Ah, that's what I thought," he said clearly, the blood somehow gone from his mouth. "Then you must ensure the rest of what she said also comes to be true. The American is the key. He will be here sooner than you think," he said with a slight smile as the breath left his lips and the light from his eyes for the final time. His body relaxed and his hand released my arm. My arm was covered in his blood and the desert was stained black with it.

I stood up, looking down at his peaceful body. He had escaped along with the others, but I was still here, left to continue fighting in an ever escalating war. After several minutes, I finally turned and left in the darkness. My jacket remained with him; I did not want to disturb his resting head, did not want his head to make contact with the desert's sand and debris.

For the briefest of moments I felt lost and confused and then I forced myself to gather my strength and control my emotions. That very evening I notified my sister what had happened, mentioning I had been with him when he had left this world for a better place. It was one of the few times I wrote home about death in any of my letters. I had not wanted to be the one to notify her of his death, but I felt it was my duty to the both of them since I knew she would take his death extremely hard.

I had introduced the two of them when he came to our house for a weekend, in one of those carefree periods before the war. She had instantly been attracted to him and they had seriously dated over time and eventually became engaged. My thoughts would sometimes wonder if he would have been my brother-in-law if life had been different, if there had been no war, if we had lived in a country not caught up in this mindless conflict.

I've written dozens of letters over the course of the war notifying loved ones regarding their loss, but this one always remained the most difficult one I wrote. This letter was so personal and had touched me so greatly, reaching out to me from across the years. When I received her reply weeks later, it was heart-wrenching in its despair and extremely uncharacteristic of her.

She cursed the war and the faceless enemy who had killed him. She cursed me for not being there when he needed me in combat, and for not being able to save him afterwards. And finally, she cursed God for taking him away from her for the ridiculous reasons of war. She seemed to forget I, too, was caught up in the war, fighting for something beyond what the simple mindless propaganda could never articulate.

I looked at the photograph after I wrote her; I don't believe the ink on my letter was even dry yet. I debated sending her the photograph, so she would have something tangible of him, but eventually I decided against it. The photograph, I knew down deep inside, belonged with me. It was meant to stay with me. If something happened to me, it would find its way to her then as a reminder of the both of us.

Sometimes, I speculated about someone else looking at the photograph instead of me and what they would see within its simple white border and dog-eared corners. Occasionally, I wondered what had happened to the other three copies. If they were tossed carelessly in a drawer back home, or had my friends carried them in their possessions like I had? Or had they been thrown away years ago and mine was the only surviving copy? Had their families looked at them, wondering about where the photograph was taken, what was happening at that particular moment when the three of us were captured for posterity in black and white?

Looking at the photograph brought me back to what my friend had said. I was uneasy at his mention of the American. How could he have known about the American, but not the rest of her prophecy? I had, of, course, never mentioned anything to anyone she had said that night. I believed he only knew the silly things she had told him about his mock future.

But yet, there was no denying he had mentioned the American. In fact, he had focused on the American. But what role could he possibly have and why would he be so important to me? Except for the occasional few fighting on both sides, the Americans hadn't yet entered the war so this part remained a mystery for me. He could be one of those few already fighting, but I had not come across any of those few. No, my analytical side made me believe he would not be one of those.

But my friend said he would arrive soon, so I continued to wait for the American, confident that he would materialize at the moment when he was needed, when he was meant to appear. When the United States did enter the war, I knew it was only a matter of time before our paths would cross. I was confident I would recognize him when he finally stepped into my life. But before he made his appearance and solved that part of the riddle, there were other things I believed needed to be finalized here in the desert first.

I tried to find the fortune teller at the first opportunity I had when we held Benghazi, but she also was gone and I never was able to find her. I easily found the bar, and I could feel the memories from that night so long ago but seeming just like yesterday. I stood next to the small table where I had once sat with Miss Arlene on that carefree night, grinning in spite of myself at the lusty thoughts I had had regarding her.

From the bar, I went in search of the fortune teller's shop. Surprisingly, on my first attempt, I found it, still next to the bakery, just as I remembered it on the dead end street. Apparently, I hadn't been as drunk as I thought that night.

But the shop was shuttered and she wasn't there. Being in uniform, I pushed my authority and forced open the locked door knowing that no one would challenge me. But the shop was dusty and deserted and obviously no one had been in there for years. For a brief moment I thought I caught the fleeting scent of her jasmine perfume, but then it disappeared and couldn't tell if it had been for real or just my hopeful imagination. I went next store to the bakery, to inquire about her, desperately wanting to find her. My soul craved to find her; it needed to find her, to have some type of closure.

The baker, who I vaguely remembered buying bread so from long ago, stepped forward cautiously to see what I wanted. His family cowered behind the counter, obviously scared of the tall uniformed soldier who was seeking something in a simple bakery.

"The woman, who was next door before the war, where is she?" I asked quietly in Arabic to the man, as I towered over him. "It is very important for me to find her. I must speak with her."

"A woman next door? What woman are you talking about?" the man asked, with the question written all over his face.

"The fortune teller!" I screamed, slamming my hand down on the counter for emphasis. At the sound of my strong voice, they all jumped. "Before the war, there was a woman fortune teller next to your bakery. I met her one night and she read my fortune."

"That shop has been empty for over ten years; there's never been a woman there. Before it closed, it was a tailor's shop turning out cheap suits for you…tourists. But I do remember you, quite clearly. You were here with your three infidel friends." He spat on the ground for emphasis as he said this. I thought he was rather bold to do this considering the fact I was obviously armed and extremely on edge.

"The four of you were drunk and you stopped by late one night and underpaid me for several loaves of bread. I guess you four never thought some of us have to work hard for a living, that we don't have everything given to us by rich fathers, like what has happened with you. Yes, you were here, but younger then, and not in uniform.

"Are you drunk now like you were then? Drunk with victory and power? So before you paid pennies for what you wanted, now that you are the current victors, have you come to take it for free? Mark my words, both sides will eventually lose in the long run. In the mean time, I pray to Allah that both sides will kill as many as possible so there will be fewer of all of you to return here in the future." He was becoming bolder with the more words he spoke.

"And your three friends? Where are they? Terrorizing other natives like you or taking 'things' that don't belong to them? Or are they dead? I hope they are all dead, just as I pray death will visit you soon." I had ignored his diatribe up to then, not caring in the least what he thought of our cause or the other side's, for that matter. He could believe what he wished as long as he provided me what I wanted. But his words regarding death drove home to me and bored into my soul. They were too close for comfort. I felt control slipping from myself and I began to lose the reality of the situation.

"For a man who will be dead in the next few seconds, this is not the time for you to express your political thoughts. I do not know what type of game you and she are playing, but I want it to end. Or things will not go well for you and your family. Now I want the woman, and I will not ask for her again," I said with deadly calm, this time not raising my voice.

"But I've already told you the truth. There is no woman! How many times do I have to tell you? Leave us in peace and go back to your madness." At his denial, I fluidly drew my weapon, my patience completely gone. His eyes suddenly grew wide with fright and he began to stammer in a dialect I didn't understand. I quickly armed the gun for emphasis and aimed it a few inches from his head. I looked him directly in the eye, not bothering to say anything else.

"Here! If you must have a woman, take my daughter! But then leave us afterwards. We want nothing to do with your war or you, for that matter. I wish all of your kind had stayed in Europe, leaving the desert to us Arabs." He shoved his daughter toward me, a young girl maybe all of the age of twelve.

I was instantly disgusted with myself for what I had become and immediately put away the weapon. I thought of my mother and sister, realizing what the war could bring to them if our homeland was invaded and we lost the war. And my father? What would he think of his only son's actions? He would save the baker the trouble of killing me by doing it himself for bringing such shame upon our family. I gently placed my hands on the young girl's shoulders, moving her to rejoin her family.

"Please forgive me," I said as I ran my hand over my tired face. I turned and quickly left the bakery, realizing my quest to find her had been strangely fulfilled. I was not meant to find her. No, I was not meant to see her ever again.

And yes, it was within the year after I visited the shop, the American finally appeared. Right on schedule, just like what the both of them had predicted. Again, not far from Benghazi, here in the Libyan desert.


	5. 1942

I found myself being pulled back to the present, as I continued to stare out over the desert. Troy, Sergeant Sam Troy, I said softly out loud with a wry grin, my thoughts gathering around his name. The war in North Africa had not been the same since he materialized and touched all of our lives. It seemed like just yesterday I encountered him for the first time, when he and I made a claim for the same piece of desert real estate.

As I always knew I would, I instantly recognized him, even before our lives became so much as one. He was everything different from what I had expected, even down to his hat. No, not an American cowboy hat for him. That would have been too ordinary for him; it never would have suited him in the least. The Australian Bush hat fit his style like a glove.

I shook my head in disbelief as to how much he had accomplished against the Wehrmacht with so little. It seemed that he was always like a cool breeze on a hot summer day: here and gone before you even knew it. The American brashness suited him perfectly and I always believed deep down inside it was the key to his intelligence and strength. Not to mention the cocky self-assurance he wore like a badge of honor, a quality we all love to hate about the Americans.

As much as I loathed to, I respected his success that came so easy to him; it came almost without effort on his part. Yes, I had to respect it, yet I also envied it. They say God protects fools and Englishmen, but there must have been a special third category that Sergeant Sam Troy fit very neatly into, owned it as his personal niche in life. Yes, she had warned me not to dismiss him. It had been my mistake to underestimate what this particular American was capable of achieving.

He was so different than me, except for perhaps, the arrogance. I have always been rather arrogant and if possible, I was even more arrogant than him. He was good at what he did, and no doubt knew it. By already having that internal self satisfaction, there was no reason for him to boast to any outsiders. However, I had to give him credit for not being boastful like other Americans I had encountered, at least not in my presence. He had the undying support of his men along with their respect. I also gave him my respect, for it would have been foolhardy on my part not to.

My musings regarding the sergeant were interrupted by the sharp smell of jasmine. The scent was so very heavy in the air this early morning. On the three previous times I had been touched by it, it had never been like this. It seemed as heavy as the incense used on high holy days in the cathedral back home. A part of me imagined I could see it engulfing me, becoming a part of me, before it began to dissipate in the slight breeze.

The scent was puzzling and troubling to me. The last time I had been in its presence had been over a year ago when it foretold the third death. I hadn't expected to smell her jasmine again and such a heavy presence was a sign I had grown to recognize.

No, I tried to reason with myself. It was not meant for me to be in its presence again. She had not warned me about anything else in her prophecy. But, I knew it was a sign not to be discounted; I knew this day would bring a major event which would impact me directly. But how was not readily apparent, although her previous signs hadn't been either.

Based on the other occasions I had been in its manifestation, I assumed its presence must symbolize an imminent death, but the other three were already claimed, with me the only survivor. Perhaps this is when she would be wrong and I would go to join the others, having the peace I was looking for at this point in the war. Or perhaps she had taken pity on me that night all those years ago, partially telling me what I wanted to hear instead of also telling me about my death which was written for this day. If this is what the sign meant, so be it.

I raised my head higher and I could feel myself setting my jaw with my stubborn pride as I looked out over the desert. I accepted the thought of my possible death without fear and without trouble. I had achieved my goals in life and had no regrets. I had served honorably and my military loyalty was bred too deeply in me to question my possible fate on the battlefield.

It was lighter now and I was beginning to make out shapes even though the sun had not yet risen beyond the ridge. Soon, the desert would be bathed in eternal sunshine, providing its life giving force. Behind me I could hear the light tread of my driver's footsteps as he approached and I knew it was time to leave before it became completely light. I viciously stubbed out my cigarette and turned to leave.

"Herr Hauptmann, its time."


	6. 1942 - continued

The day had dawned beautifully. It was clear with little wind and the morning air was still crisp from the evening. I continued to scan the distance waiting for the courier to arrive. We were already in position, covering both ends of a narrow ravine.

I was intently focused on the mission, looking at it from different angles, continually running it through my mind. I analyzed different approaches for attacking, which tactic to employ, what could possibly go wrong. Missions never go completely as we plan or hope, but I always wanted to minimize oversights to the smallest variable. The analytical aspect was always what I enjoyed most about entering combat. Afterwards, I would analyze what we had done well, how I could prepare differently and what could be improved upon for the future.

We had orders to intercept an Allied courier and to capture the enemy maps he was believed to be carrying. It was a common mission we had performed on numerous occasions. Intelligence had received a fairly accurate lead that current maps were to be delivered to the enemy headquarters.

Fairly routine, I thought. I couldn't fathom how something so straightforward could be a harbinger of the unknown, although I realized events in war were rarely simple. Why she would make an appearance and have an interest in this particular event was intriguing.

I thought it odd the Allied courier would choose this exact route, pressed so far into German territory. The route was more to our advantage than to the Allies. On the other hand, it was the quickest route and if the maps were urgent, it would make sense to use this route. I continued to wrestle back and forth over this inconsistency. I decided to remain open minded, but a strong part of me began to smell an eight-legged rat.

The beauty of this ravine was its narrow and twisted entrance. We were able to place ourselves inside it without the courier being able to spot us until he had already entered it. What made it even more ideal was that he would be unable to see the trap at the far end until it was already closed. The sun would be in the eyes of the courier, an additional advantage to us. I was positioned on a rocky ledge, which provided me a good view of his approach without allowing him to see me.

I could see the motorcycle long before I could hear its high engine whine. From its appearance, it appeared to be British although equipment was frequently borrowed from all sides of the war. He had no escorts, which I again found odd. Mulling over what little I knew and could see, I continued to have my doubts. I could see both sides of the analysis, but I was becoming increasingly suspicious. I firmly placed my doubts aside to focus on the moment at hand.

I motioned to my men that he was approaching and to prepare themselves. There had to be more to this than just a simple courier and I was not going to allow him the opportunity to escape. I found myself deadly calm as he went right into the trap without incident, without realizing the door had already closed behind him. It wasn't until he went through the ravine, when he saw the far exit already closed, that he realized he was cornered.

He came to a twisting halt, spraying sand as he quickly reversed direction to return the way he had originally entered, speeding up quickly, desperately hoping to escape. You fool, I thought. Why are you running? There was nowhere to escape. Don't you realize that we have already closed off both ends? Save yourself. There would be no dishonor for surrendering against such overwhelming odds. Kindly give us the maps and let's be done with it.

But he didn't surrender and instead decided to fight, which didn't surprise me. I respected his decision; I wouldn't have surrendered, either, if I had been in his place. I would have done everything possible to protect the maps. Eventually, I knew that the situation would need to come to an end, sooner rather than later.

I was about to signal my men when he brought the issue to a close by drawing his weapon. My men had no choice except to open fire and bring the episode to a quick end. I saw him hit several times, the motorcycle falling and him tumbling over several times before finally lying still. No more than five minutes had passed from the time he came into view until he was brought down.

I quickly reached my vehicle and I calmly told my driver to take me to where the courier lay and where my men could cover me. The young gefreiter was a fairly new man; he had only been with me for a few weeks. I use the term "man" loosely since he looked barely eighteen and had probably never used a razor more than two days in a row. My God, I thought. I knew enough that the war was turning against us and was probably lost, but had it already reached the point of sending boys to fight the war for men?

It only took a few minutes to reach the area where the courier lay prone. I told my driver not to pull too close in case he was still alive and had enough fight in him to try another foolish act. I frankly did not think he could still be alive, but I had learned never to make such a dangerous assumption.

My driver pulled up with the body on his side, blocking my view so I was unable to confirm if the courier was indeed dead. Before I could stop him, the driver jumped out and approached the sprawled body looking to retrieve the satchel. The gefreiter suddenly turned to the side and vomited, upending his breakfast. Realizing the situation must be extreme, I immediately left the vehicle to retrieve the satchel myself, drawing my weapon as I did.

The gefreiter was still retching to the side, unable to stop or control himself. I motioned him away, willing myself not to become ill like him. I looked at the body and stopped abruptly. I immediately thought: not again. No, no, please not this again. But it had repeated itself and this was what was meant to be.

I recognized him from several steps away, but it would have been hard not to since I knew him so well. Everything, including him, I had seen before: the body torn apart almost in two, the spilled entrails and the blood soaking into the desert again. The only thing different was the desert location and the uniform covering his body. The feelings of guilt and despair due to me causing his death were overwhelming. Without being able to stop myself, I found myself going through the same motions I had previously done.

I stripped off my jacket despite the morning chill and gently placed it under his head as I kneeled down beside him. This time, though, I was unable to say his name. It caught in my throat and I couldn't get the word out. As before, he grabbed my arm and his strength again surprised me. I realized this time it was not my life he was trying to drain into his body, but it was he who was giving me his remaining strength of life, for it to see me through until the war's end. Once more, he tried to speak, but the amount of blood in his mouth again prevented him from being understood. I gently placed my fingers on his lips and shook my head.

"Please forgive me for I have done to you. It is not necessary for you to speak, I already know," I said softly to him in German. "Words cannot begin to express the infinite sadness I feel, the utter complete despair for you to live through this a second time. You were always a better man than me; it was my turn, it should have been me this time, not you again." His hand moved from my arm to my shirt front, grabbing it in a fierce hold and immediately staining it scarlet.

"I have always known since that night that there would be something difficult I will need to do. I truly wish you had not had to experience death a second time to serve as a reminder for me, for whatever it may be that I will soon be facing." His hand continued to tightly clench my shirt front, his blood draining unto it. Then his hand relaxed its grip before his fingers lightly touched my cheek, also staining it, and for a second time he was gone. With my fingers, I made the sign of the cross over his forehead and stayed next to him for several minutes.

"Should I call the medic?" asked the gefreiter, breaking the silence. I had completely forgotten about him during the time I was with the courier. He had finally recovered since he had nothing else left to void. Without me realizing it, he had moved quietly to wait behind me.

"I believe you already know the answer to your question," I replied without emotion as I straightened up, looking down at the courier's magnificent body broken again for what I prayed would be the last time. No, for the both of us to experience this a third time would drive me to peaceful insanity.

"Herr Hauptmann, what did you say to him?" asked the gefreiter curiously, continuing to intrude on my private moment. "I couldn't make out the words. He's clearly English, yet you were speaking very softly to him in German. Why weren't you speaking English?"

"I was speaking to a dying man. The words are not meant to be shared," I replied quietly. I quickly turned to leave and then remembered the satchel, the simple cause of everything which had happened this morning. I paused and picked up the satchel, briefly opening it to confirm the maps were inside and then continued to walk away briskly. I would review them in detail once we had returned to our camp.

"Your jacket, Herr Hauptmann! You almost forgot it," he called after me and with a grimace, he started to pull it out from under the dead man's head.

"No, I will do it," I kindly ordered him. I returned to the body and gently removed my jacket while I softly placed the head down on the sand and small pebbles. The jacket was horribly stained, the blood having seeped through it in several places.

"Hopefully, it will be salvageable. Perhaps the sun will be able to bleach it," he said trying to be helpful. I ignored him and rapidly returned to the Kubelwagon. I placed the folded jacket on my lap and sat there for a few moments before speaking to him.

"Gefreiter Mueller, next time assess the situation before you act so quickly," I said firmly, but without anger. "When you arrived at the downed courier's location, you should have approached him more cautiously, assuming he would still do anything he could to protect the maps. You didn't even have your weapon drawn. The lives of others depend on you acting rationally. You could have been killed. Situations are not always as they seem."

"Yes, Herr Hauptmann," he replied quietly. I motioned for him and my other men to return to our camp. There was nothing more to be done here. Everything was finally finished.

The gefreiter and I said nothing more on the return drive. There was no talk of the mission, no discussion of what had occurred, no small talk if we thought it might be hot tomorrow. We both were lost in our own thoughts. I could tell he was badly shaken; his knuckles were white as they gripped the steering wheel. I probably should have said something to him about what he had witnessed, but I believed he would need to draw on his own inner strength to put this behind him.

The return drive seemed like it was never ending. What I wanted most was a cigarette. My entire body screamed for just one cigarette and a drink even more, if that was even possible. The jasmine had distracted me this morning and I had forgotten to bring my cigarettes and lighter with me, although I never smoked during a mission. As for the drink, I would not allow myself that comfort until I was alone in my tent this evening.

I looked down at my hands holding the jacket, surprised that they were so rock solid after experiencing the same one act play a second time. Although no one had been killed except for the courier, I was still edgy and wanted to quickly examine the maps and be done with the events of the day.

I must have appeared a sight when we finally reached our camp. My face, arms and shirt front were covered with his blood. More than one soldier asked me if I was wounded and if I needed medical attention. Realizing the sight was a distraction to those around me, I finally broke away for a few minutes to clean up and put on a fresh shirt, leaving the jacket behind on a chair. I snatched my cigarettes and lighter from my desk as I left, lighting up the first of what would be several for the afternoon.

I found myself very calm and composed as I coolly examined the maps with Leutnant Giessler. My hands were steady, flicking away cigarette ash before lighting a fresh one as I continued with my analysis. I pointed out various items with a professional demeanor to him, my voice collected and factual. I occasionally asked for his opinion, drawing him out, using this as an exercise to advance his analytical and leadership abilities.

After everything which had happened, my earlier reservations of the mission were confirmed when I examined the maps closely. One map listed an Allied presence where I knew it didn't exist. We had been in that area by chance less than a week ago and I didn't believe the Allies could establish themselves there that quickly. When these maps were created, the Allies would have had no way of knowing the Germans would be able to disprove this key item.

There was also a minor landmark which was slightly off where it was actually located. The mistake could be due to the maps being rushed given their importance, but I believed it was because the map's creator was unfamiliar familiar with the given area. Someone had created these maps from a different place, wanting to distract the Germans from the Allies' true location for a very pointed reason. They wanted to mislead us, for us to move into a different location. No, I wasn't going to fall for their game.

My analysis kept returning to the fact that the entire operation had just been too simple. This fact was the final confirmation for me regarding the map's lack of authenticity. Deep down inside, I also had the nagging suspicions of the Rat Patrol's involvement in this charade. The entire mission reeked of their slick style, but I had no concrete evidence of it, no proof of their connection.

I finally had to put aside the irritating belief of their involvement since I knew it would not change my view regarding the maps' validity. No, it was impossible for my doubts to be positively confirmed. I thought with a wry grin about asking Sergeant Troy for his confirmation the next time our paths crossed, just for the sake of polite conversation. Not that he would willingly provide it, mind you. I don't believe wild horses or even the Gestapo would be able to pull it or any other information from him.

Perhaps after the war he would confirm my suspicions for me, when we sat down together in a cheap bar, in America no less, to get drunk and reminisce about the war. She had said our paths would continue to be linked after the war and drinking to excess would be an excellent beginning for this new connection. A part of me, a big part of me I hated to admit, hoped this part of her prophecy was also true.

Perhaps I would be drunk enough when we met to tell him about her, how I knew what his role would be long before he joined me in the desert. While he was still eating hotdogs, playing baseball and chasing skirts, I had patiently waited for him to appear. But until that whimsical moment possibly arrived and I learned the true reason behind this mission, I would always believe it was a complete and utter waste of a man's life and for what? We were not going to follow through on any of it.

I radioed my analysis to headquarters which initially also discredited my opinion. I walked them through my analysis point by point and eventually they arrived at the same conclusion, although this took some time and effort on my part. At one moment I was so frustrated with them it took every ounce of my will power not to upend the table and give the radio a good strong kick just to shut them and their infernal questions up.

I struggled with a part of me which wanted to pretend the maps were real, to finally be finished with the day and to put it behind me. Perhaps then, the war would end just a few seconds sooner with fewer lives lost. But my conscious wouldn't allow me go with this unrealistic thought. I had taken an oath as a German officer and I would continue to serve with my utmost abilities until the end arrived.

I finally was able to return to my tent, emotionally exhausted from the day. At last, I told myself, I would be able to have the drink I so desperately needed and put this long day into the immediate past. From my meager belongings, I pulled a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey along with the photograph from so long ago, and placed them side by side on the flimsy desk.

I had always travelled light, but I still thought it sad, that all my worldly possessions at this particular moment consisted of a bottle of Tennessee whiskey, letters from my family and many half-forgotten women (no, I definitely had not led a nun's life), my medals, portrait drawings I'd made of my fellow officers and of the Rat Patrol, a few books, the Spanish postcard and other photographs acquired throughout the war years.

Soon, these possessions would be joined by my stained jacket from this morning. I knew keeping it was rather ghoulish of me, but I could not part with the jacket a second time. I needed another connection to him and all the events from the past besides just the worn photograph.

At this moment in my life, I think the bottle of whiskey meant the most to me. Half empty, I jealously guarded what little remained in it. I knew I would never be able to get my hands on another bottle of Jack Daniels until after the war. That is, assuming she told me the truth and that I made it to the end of the war.

Distilled after the idiotic American Prohibition was lifted, it was the final bottle of a case I had purchased during my last trip to the United States before the war began. I savored this remaining bottle of sour mash and saved it only for special occasions , drinking from it very sparingly. I usually only had a small drink from it to celebrate a victory or to reflect on a special moment. I would savor its smokiness as I remembered the occasion, etching the event into my soul. Tonight though, its use would be completely different. I needed its strength to drown out the events from the day.

Since that one night so long ago, I again needed and wanted to drink to forget the day's events which I had experienced. How ironic that the only two times in my life I needed to do this were directly related. While I knew the half bottle was not near enough to accomplish my goal, it would at least take the rawness away for a few brief hours.

What I would give to have the original full case of Jack Daniels within my grasp tonight. However, I would have settled for just one full bottle to provide some measure of comfort and peace. Eight years had passed, but time had stood still and I needed to forget once again. I hated myself for needing liquor to carry this out. I firmly believed it was unbecoming of a German officer to rely on such a crutch. It was a sign of weakness and would set a poor example to my men if they should suspect.

I heavily sat down and lit another cigarette from the one I was already smoking, allowing the smoke to lazily escape from my mouth. At the rate I was chain smoking today, I would quickly run out of this crutch, too, and black market cigarettes were not easily obtained in this part of the desert. It would have been nice if they were American cigarettes, I thought with a smile. That would be a little piece of heaven on Earth to accompany the whiskey.

I picked up the photograph, staring at its snapshot of such a timeless moment. How I wished I was back in time, living those carefree days. On leave from the military, having the time of my life, not a concern in the world. The three of them alive, along with all the faceless soldiers I had killed during the war, having them all alive for one more moment of life.

I looked back into time as I stared at the photograph. I honestly believed my North African trip with my friends was the only time in my life I had really cut loose from my seriousness in life. I had firmly placed aside my military heritage, all that was so neatly starched and in order.

"I wish things could have been different," I said softly to all of them and no one in particular. No one answered, but I already knew there would be no answer for me. I finally let the photograph slip to the desk.

"This one time," I said aloud to myself. "Just this one time." I was starting to reach for the bottle when a single shot rang out from the darkness. I closed my eyes, and turned my head to the side listening in myself imposed darkness. I knew what it was. How I so prayed it was something else, but I knew what the shot meant. Why did this also have to come to past? He was never part of the original plan, not even vaguely mentioned as a remote footnote.

There was an immediate stirring in the camp, and I could hear men rushing around to determine the source of the shot. There were no additional ones, but I knew there wouldn't be any, not this time. It wasn't Sergeant Troy and his band of Merry Men wrecking havoc in the part of the desert I owned. No, it wasn't the American this time. It was someone closer to home. I stopped reaching for the bottle and instead used my hand to push myself up wearily from the chair and walked outside to accept the situation.

An unteroffizier came running up, a look of shock and surprise on his face.

"Herr Hauptmann!" he said without adding anything else. He seemed to be unable to find the right words.

"Tell me about the lone shot," I prompted him, my patience beginning to run thin from the day.

"It's Gefreiter Mueller! Your driver." His simple words confirmed the event for me at that moment. Nothing else needed to be said. It wasn't necessary for him to tell me the remainder, the end of the story, but I knew he would continue. It had been Mueller's destiny, too. Why, I'll never know nor understand. He was not there that night in the bar; he had never been in my circle of life until a few weeks ago. What purpose did his death serve? Why did he need to be included with my fate?

"He…he killed himself, Herr Hauptmann!"

I looked beyond him and could see outside of camp, on a small hill amid a clump of bushes, several soldiers gathered around someone lying still on the ground. The impending twilight shadowed them and I couldn't quite make them out. The rest of the camp was calming down, returning to normal, except for this one spot.

I walked over to where he was lying, the other men quietly parting when I approached. Yes, there could be no doubt, he was dead, and he was the one who had done the honors. He had placed his gun against his blond temple and pulled the trigger to leave the desert and everything else behind once and for all.

The day's event had been too much for him and he was unable to accept its final results. Perhaps he, too, feared he would end up eviscerated on the desert floor, his life's blood bleeding black into the desert sand. Either way, his fear had prompted him to take actions and end with the same result.

"Take care of him," I quietly ordered. Without looking back, I turned and left as my adjutant caught up with me.

"Herr Hauptmann, how do you want me to…categorize this?"

"List him as being killed in combat."

"But…"

"What did I say that you don't understand?" I asked cruelly.

"Of course I understand…" he said, his voice trailing off in confusion.

"Then you have your orders. I will now go write the letter to his family, telling them how their son died a brave and glorious death while giving everything he had to the Fatherland at such a young age." It took a supreme effort, but I was able to restrain myself from adding sarcasm on my diatribe statement.

I stopped suddenly, looking up, trying to capture the jasmine I thought I could smell for the briefest of moments. All the memories of the years came back in a rush, all the hopes and dreams and deaths, in the briefest of seconds, were relived before they, too, faded back to being just memories.

I understood this final reunion to mean that she had come to say goodbye and I would never smell the sweet perfume again. Later, there were times I thought I was in its presence, but I soon realized it was wishful thinking on my part. I came to realize that by not smelling it again, I would live to fulfill her prophecy.

My final parting from her would be the poor boy's notification letter. They were a necessary evil I never looked forward to and this was one that I needed to put behind me immediately. I don't think I would ever be able to place Mueller's connection with my life, why his death was necessary. No, not even Herr Daniels would provide me this answer or any other comfort tonight. There would be no Jack Daniels tonight, I decided. It should only be savored for the positive moments, not something like this. Perhaps sometime soon, he and I would make our acquaintance again.

"Herr Hauptmann, one other thing," he called after me.

"What else is there now?" I asked ruthlessly, whirling around to face him. I was immediately disappointed with myself for losing patience with a subordinate, but I had not wanted my final moment with her interrupted. But it was and the memories were now firmly placed in the past while I remained here in the present.

"I wanted to remind you," he said hesitantly, forcing me to focus. "The signing of the temporary truce due to the typhus epidemic is tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," I said softly, placing my anger and frustration firmly aside, forcing my analytical side to resurface. "Thank you for reminding me about the truce. It had slipped from my mind due to the day's events. I will be leaving tomorrow for Raza as soon as it is light enough to drive. It will take us a while to drive there." I turned and left him, and for an unknown reason, the stress fell away and my soul felt completely free and at peace.


	7. 1942 - epilogue

"That was easy, Sarge, delivering the real maps right under the Krauts' noses. Do you think they bought it about the phony maps?" asked Hitch as he casually leaned against the Jeep in the cool night air.

"Let's hope so. Intelligence says the Germans have the decoy maps. Now they just have to act against them. If they do, it'll bring the war that much closer to an end."

"What happened to the guy carrying the maps? If the Germans have the maps, where's he at?" asked Tully thoughtfully, chewing on the ever present matchstick.

"Don't know that part. I asked when we handed over the real maps, but wasn't given an answer. Let's hope that he got out in one piece," replied Troy. "Moffitt, who _was_ the guy who volunteered to carry the decoy maps?" asked Troy after a moment's thought.

"A chap named Ellery," answered Moffitt.

"Ellery? A Limey? Don't think I know him. But remind me to buy him a gin and tonic the next time we see him. We owe him a big one," Troy said grinning.

"I haven't seen him around before, either. Apparently, he must be a new fellow. Come to think of it, Troy, the mission was rather _too_ easy," Moffitt mused. "To pull the wool over Dietrich's eyes, for us to deliver the maps without firing a shot," added Moffitt, thoughtfully.

"What are you guys complaining about? In and out, nobody gets killed."


End file.
